A Shattered Soul
by zoe-roberts
Summary: In which Christine murders her last remaining relative and flees from the consequences. She tries, with some help, so start a new life for herself, but will the memories of what she did continue to haunt her? Will the consequences of her actions catch up with her in the end?
1. Chapter 1

I let out a shaky breath. Dried blood caked my hands which I was unable to still. I tried to wipe away the tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands so not to get any blood on my face. I sobbed. I had stabbed him, and now he was most likely dead by my hand. I had never stabbed anyone before, in fact, I had not ever even struck another person. The gendarmerie would find his body in my apartment and I would be implicated in the murder of my uncle.

I ran through the streets of Paris alone, in the dead of night. I had intended to find the mansion of the Comte de Changy and beg his younger brother, the Vicomte, for his assistance. I knew they would most likely have me arrested immediately, but Raoul had been in love with me for the past twelve years, and I had rather hoped for his help and discretion. I did not go to the mansion; rather, I went to the graveyard. Graveyards are disturbing enough in broad daylight, but I thought if I were to die that night, perhaps it would be a fitting location.

It only took me a moment to find my father's grave. "Papa," I sobbed, falling to my knees in front of the tombstone. "I have done something terrible, Papa, and I cannot fix it."

Tears streamed down my face and I hastily brushed them aside. I had been crying for nearly an hour and I was surprised that I had not yet dried up.

I noticed it had rained earlier that day. The ground was soft, and mud had begun to seep into the hem of my gown. I did not really care about my dress, though, I had just murdered a man. "He's dead," I kept whispering to myself, "He's dead and I'm glad that he's dead… I should be dead."

I sobbed again. I sobbed not because the scoundrel was dead, but because whatever was left of my innocence was now gone. A piece of myself died with my uncle, a piece of myself that would never be returned.

Presently, I felt the cool autumn air begin to chill my skin. I had not thought to bring a shawl, but I figured that one rarely thinks practically when fleeing a murder scene. The ground which once felt soft and damp underneath my boney knees had grown hard and cold. Perhaps I should lie down a moment, I thought to myself. My eyes felt heavy, and my limbs ached. I wished I could wind back time. I would be sitting at home in Sweden. Papa would play his violin, and Mama would bake vaniljkakor. A fire would crackle away in the hearth. All would be well. All would be at peace.

My head throbbed against the hard ground, but I did not have the strength to sit up again. I knew I was going to die, and that was okay. Everyone I had ever loved had died, and the only part of myself I had loved had also died. I deserved to die. Poor Raoul, I thought. He's in love with a murderer. He would not love me if he knew what I had done. I slowly drifted unconscious. I had not died as I had hoped, I had merely fallen into a restless sleep.

I did not consider there would be anyone else visiting a graveyard in the dead of night. There was a man there that night, clad in black, blending with the shadows. He had followed me there and watched as I poured my heart out to a gravestone. Once he was sure I was no longer awake, he draped his cloak around my shoulders, bringing me to my new home: The Palais Garnier Opera House.


	2. Chapter 2

Upon waking, I found myself in a dark room lit only by one candle. I had also been covered in a thick wool blanket. I sat up and felt the world spin around me. The more alert I became, the more panicked I felt. I no longer wore my blood and mud caked gown, but a nightgown that was not my own. I looked around the room. There was a small table near the bed that held the candle, Other than that, the only furnishing was a cabinet that I assumed held clothes. I glanced down and realized that my hands were no longer caked in blood. Someone evidently had found and cared for me, which lessened my fear a little but not by much.

I let out a breath I had not even realized I was holding and tried the door handle. It was locked from the outside. "Hello?" I called, trying not to sound panicked.

I looked around the room for some sharp object I could use to pick the lock. I opened up the cabinet only to find it empty, devoid of any hangers that I could fashion into a lockpick. I then felt in my unruly curls from a pin I could use. I had my hair pinned before I had fled, but evidently, that had been taken from me also. I sighed heavily, and sat on the bed once more, trying hard to keep my tears at bay.

Presently, the door opened. A tall thin woman stood before me. She had dark graying hair that was pulled back tightly into a bun. She wore a well-tailored, but rather a plain dark gray dress that flattered her wiry figure. She had black beady eyes partially concealed behind a large pair of spectacles and thin lips that were pursed tightly. Although she looked to be a rather severe woman, something about her presence put me a bit at ease. She regarded me for a moment, and inquired, "What is your name?"

Memories of the murder flashed before my eyes. I suppose I oughtn't to tell her my proper name. "Christine Gustafsson," I answered after a moment. I figured there were enough Christine's in Paris that I could keep my first name. My last name was not exactly a lie also, since my father's name was Gustaf, though I could not exactly have said my name was "Christine Gustaf-daughter."

"I am Madame Giry the ballet Headmistress here. You were found in a graveyard late last night, and I was instructed to care for you and offer you a position in the Chorus," she stated after regarding me for another moment.

"Asked by whom?" I inquired, baffled by this scenario, not quite believing my good luck.

"That is of little consequence. Provided that you can learn the blocking, you will perform in the upcoming showing of II Muto that debuts in three weeks. Our chorus has currently grown rather sparse or I doubt such a ridiculous request would have been made. I will not inquire as to why you were found unconscious, alone, at night in a graveyard, as that is your past and your business. However, should you accept this offer, you will be expected to not indulge in such behavior and behave with the highest amount of propriety. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Madame. Thank you, I believe I should like to accept your offer," I responded.

I supposed that it did not really matter who found me or why they had decided to show me such an extraordinary act of kindness, though being here reminded me of my days spent in Sweden with my parents.

"One-day min prinsessa you will grace all of Europe with your beautiful voice!" my father proclaimed, applauding my little performance.

I giggled and curtsied to my audience of two as my mother wiped a tear from her eye. "You ought to learn to dance, also," my mother commented, "If you ever want to be a real performer, you must learn to dance."

My mother's words rang in my mind even after all those years. My parents had paid for dance lessons, and I progressed quite well before I moved to Paris.

"—is that acceptable?"

I snapped back to the present, realizing that I had been spoken to again. "Sorry, I was distracted," I murmured, barely meeting her harsh gaze.

"You will still need to audition for the chorus, as we need to evaluate your singing and dancing abilities. Would you find this afternoon acceptable?" she repeated.

I nodded, "yes, thank you. Should I be officially accepted, would I stay here–" I began, before she cut me off.

"All young unmarried female performers live together in the dormitories. Provided that you are not engaged or married, you will stay there. Assuming you can sing as well as I have been informed, you will want to make arrangements to have your belongings transported here. In the meantime, you may keep the nightgown, and I will bring some fresh clothes for you to change into."

"I don't have any belongings," I remarked quietly.

A puzzled expression crossed her features but disappeared quickly. "I will find you some proper things to wear. In the meantime, you must stay here."

I nodded meekly, as there was nowhere for me to go anyways. I did notice that as she left she did not re-lock the door, which provided me with a bit of comfort. Nearly an hour passed before I heard her footsteps approaching. She stopped a few yards outside my door, and I heard her voice talking to someone. Putting my ear to the door I attempted to listen in on their conversation, but I was only able to glean bits of their conversation. "I really do not know why you picked this one," I heard her state.

The words stung a little, but I did not understand why I had been 'chosen' either. "Who is she? She does not even have a single belonging! How do I know you have not delivered me a thieving maniac who will slit all our throats in our sleep?!"

"Calm yourself, Antoinette," I heard a smooth silvery voice respond, "I will keep watch over her and ensure your safety. I would not have brought her here if it were not for the greater good."

I felt unsettled by the voice and quickly backed over to the bed so it would not seem like I had been eavesdropping. I wondered if perhaps the voice had been involved in my rescue. Presently, Madame Giry entered with a satchel and a bucket filled with water. "You should find everything you require in the satchel. Clean yourself up. I'll return later and show you to the dormitories."

I thanked her as she left the room. I had expected that she would provide me with a fresh gown and perhaps a change of undergarments. However, she had been quite considerate in obtaining for me two fresh gowns, another nightgown, two pairs of stockings, fresh undergarments, ballet slippers, among other items I had not even considered that I would have needed. I began to wish that I had thought ahead enough when fleeing to have brought some of my personal belongings. However, it was too late to return to my previous home to retrieve anything. I had a new life, and I would readily accept it.

I dressed quickly and washed my face. I found my hair pin returned to me in the satchel, and I used it to pin up my unruly curls. I waited again for nearly twenty minutes for Madame Giry to return again. This time, when she knocked on my door and entered, she was accompanied by a pretty blonde girl.

The girl was taller than me, but not quite as tall as the ballet mistress. She had long blonde waist-length hair that she had pinned away from her face, but cascaded in long waves down her back. Her eyes were large and sea green and seemed to sparkle with mischief. She had a toned figure and moved gracefully, evidently a ballerina.

"I thought I should introduce you to one of the girls here so that she can show you around. This is my daughter Meghan, one of the ballet rats. I'll leave the two of you to get acquainted," said Madame Giry a little stiffly as she turned to leave.

Meghan, however, appeared much more enthusiastic and friendly. "Hi!" she exclaimed as she rushed forward to embrace me, "you can call me Meg. My mother can be a bit gruff at times, but that's just because she's a perfectionist who dislikes change or any sort of unusual disruption. Not that you're much of a disruption, though the Opera Ghost has never demanded that a random girl off the streets be thrust into the chorus. Your arrival is just a bit unconventional, though I would expect you will have a successful career given that the Ghost is on your side!" she prattled on.

"Ghost?" I asked confused.

"Oh yes, I suppose you haven't been here long enough to have heard of the Ghost." Meg flashed me a grin and began her tale, "Once upon a time, there lived the finest opera singer to ever have existed. It was said that he had the voice of an angel and the face of a god. For years he performed alongside his one true love, the prima donna of course. It was rumored that they were engaged to be married, but the prima donna had been unfaithful and her lover attempted to prevent the wedding. In a tragic turn of events, the prima donna, overcome with guilt, poisoned herself with the very venom intended for the Opera Ghost that her lover had craftily placed in his goblet. Broken hearted, the Ghost shot and killed her lover before turning the pistol on himself. He now walks these very halls, searching for his one true love, and has done so for the past 100 years. He also has a heavy influence over the activities in the Opera House and no one ever dares to oppose his wishes. Evidently, he wishes for you to join the chorus, so here you are."

Meg finished her gripped tale, and I chuckled. "Well that's tragically romantic, but I don't believe in ghosts." I'd have a couple haunting me now if I did, I thought, though I was wise enough not to say so aloud. Though I did wonder, If there isn't a ghost, why on earth am I here?

"Doubt if you will, but you'll learn soon enough!" Meg laughed gleefully, pulling me to my feet, "Come now, I know half a dozen other ballet rats who are dying to meet you."


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of that day felt like a blur. I met several friendly ballerinas and members of the chorus, though they all seemed to share pretty faces and lithe slender figures. My "audition" was passable. I passed well enough into a lower position in the chorus, though I heard one of the managers comment that I was pretty enough, though decidedly "unremarkable."

As I lay in bed in the dormitories that night, I wondered again why I had been randomly plucked from a graveyard, and why the "Ghost" expected me to accept such a ridiculous proposition. Even though I readily accepted the position, I felt uneasy, that perhaps my bloody secret might not have been such a secret after all. I tried to push those thoughts aside, praying that perhaps my savior had merely been a kind, reclusive gentleman that brought me here because of his good nature. Perhaps he had simply stumbled upon a grieving young woman caked in mud and blood in a graveyard... at night – I breathed in slowly from my diaphragm, as my dear papa had taught me. I relaxed my hands, eased tensed neck muscles, unclenched my jaw, and slowly opened my eyes. I decided that wallowing in self-pity did nothing for the delicate state of my mental health, though a walk could do my spirits a bit of good.

I wandered the corridors for some time before I found a staircase tucked away rather far from the dormitories. In fact, the only rooms nearby that I had noticed were old abandoned dressing rooms laden with cobwebs and dust. I followed the stairs up for several flights, wondering with increased anticipation, where they lead. At long last, I reached the end, which had what I could best describe as being a hatch of sorts. It took me several tries to open it, but I was immediately greeted with a rush of cool autumn air. With very little grace or decorum I managed to hoist myself through the hatch, finding myself on the roof of the opera house, surrounded by stars and moonlight, and a gentle breeze which did wonders to calm my anxiety.

I sat near the edge of the roof, though not close enough to be in any danger of falling. For the first time since I had stabbed my last living family member, I felt a bit of peace. Granted, not enough peace to ignore the fact that I was a murderer with blood and dirt still living under my fingernails, but at peace all the same. I did not pay much attention to how much time had passed – it felt like minutes and hours all at once. I noticed the east begin to become dimly lit as the sun began to peek over the horizon. I decided to return to the dormitories before the ballet rats awoke and wondered where the new peculiar chorus girl had wandered off to. I needed no more ghost stories following me around in this opera house.

As I lowered myself back down the hatch, I glanced around at my newfound sanctuary one last time and smiled, a true smile, as slight as it may have been. I disappeared down the stairs, completely oblivious to the pair of yellow glittering eyes that had watched me the entire time.

Returning to my bed, I was gifted with an hour, perhaps two of sleep before the girls awoke and caused a flurry of activity. I dreamed little, but the dreams I did have were haunted by shadows and the face of my uncle, bloodstained, eyes bulging, wheezing and gasping for air. In truth, my nightmares were far more distressing than the actual events. I had indeed stabbed the man, solidly in the chest. I recalled no eyes bulging, though the gurgle of blood was enough to haunt my dreams for a lifetime. I snapped my eyes open, not caring much for more unsettling sleep.

The following days and weeks became easier to manage once I found myself more accustomed to the rhythm of the opera house. Rehearsals, which I initially dreaded due to my inexperience, soon proved to be a distraction from the horrors that lurked in the back of my mind. I could not concentrate my past when I was busy concentrating on not being smacked by the cane from Madame Giry.

While the daytime brought me distractions, I found that the nights and evenings brought me a small scrap of peace. Initially, I had only spent my rooftop time gazing at the stars. Eventually, I began humming quietly to myself. Later as the weeks passed and I felt a bit more at ease, I began letting my voice rise in song, but oh what a sorrowful song it was. Although singing made me want to cry, it also set me free, a feeling that I had seldom experienced. And it was after my song, one night, that I had finally met the stranger cloaked in shadow who had been haunting me those long arduous weeks. I had not noticed him on my first rooftop visit, but as the days ticked by, I began to feel him – the way you feel monsters who lurk under your bed, or in the corners of your eyes. I knew he was there, or at least that something sinister was stalking me; however, though he clouded the rooftop with his dark presence, I did not find it all that threatening. In fact, perhaps he should be threatened by me, given my murderous history. Until he spoke to me that one night, I honestly assumed he was a ghost, perhaps the spirit of my dead uncle there to haunt me. I deserved whatever judgment he would pass, though he never posed to be a danger there on the rooftop, merely a silent observer.

I had finished my song that night, as was nearly ready to venture back to the dormitories. I felt exhausted from the long rehearsals and lack of peaceful sleep, for whenever I closed my eyes, my dead uncle was there to haunt me. However, he delayed me for a moment, remarking, "You have an adequate voice."

Despite my surprise at my ghost having a voice, I felt offended. I knew it was not comparable to La Carlotta's or any great diva, but his comment felt demeaning all the same. I spun to where I assumed the voice had originated and retorted, "If my voice is only adequate, I wonder why you bothered saying anything at all!"

"I did not mean to offend you, mademoiselle, in fact, you misunderstand my meaning," he commented, still not revealing himself from the shadows, "I intended to convey that you possess a wondrous instrument, but it is your technique, the playing of your instrument that is lacking."

I scoffed, "And what would you have me do, Mr. Ghost?"

"Erik," he replied.

"Mr. Erik."

"I would like to teach you. I am aware that you often venture to the rooftop in the evenings; perhaps you would like those evenings to be a bit more productive for your career."

I pondered his proposition for several moments. "Why do you want to help me? I know that you abducted me from my father's gravesite. Why?" I asked.

"Abducted is a rather harsh word, but you appeared to be ... struggling. I could only make an assumption based on your frantic state of suicidalness while covered in dirt and blood. However, I will not pry into your past, I only wanted to offer you a second chance at life."

I nodded, feeling a bit more at ease despite the absurdity of the situation. "If I agree, will you come out of the shadows and let me see you?"

From behind a statue, appeared a man. He was very tall and thin, clad in all black, accompanied by a black cloak and mask that covered most of his face. Everything about his appearance seemed elegant and perhaps even regal. The little of his face I could see revealed a chiseled jaw and high angular cheekbones. He also possessed full lips, that I did not allow my eyes to linger on for too long (obviously, for proprieties sake). His eyes were like pools of golden honey, and I found myself a bit lost in them, as I looked away, blushing a bit for staring at this masked phantom.

Remembering my manors, I stuck out my hand, saying, "I'm Christine Da- Gustafson," catching myself before I careless gave up my secret, "I think I should like a few lessons."

He nodded, gently taking my hand before abruptly releasing it. "I shall expect to see you tomorrow after your rehearsal," he remarked before vanishing into a cloud of smoke.

Perhaps I had just met a ghost after all.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, no!" snapped Erik, "You must breathe from your diaphragm! How many times must I tell you?"

He crossed the distance between us in an instant in order to correct my posture. He lengthened my neck, straightened my shoulders, and pressed a firm hand on my abdomen – the first physical contact between us since the brief handshake, which had occurred nearly a week earlier "breathe from here. Now try again."

Try I did for the following forty-five minutes, filled with continuous stops as well as Erik's frustrations. Once he was meagerly satisfied for the night he sent me away to bed, reminding me not to be late tomorrow. I had noticed a slight improvement in my technique, despite how I disliked his stern rebukes. Before leaving, I murmured my gratitude, "thank you, Erik, for all you have done for me."

I blushed, he stiffly nodded, and I disappeared into the hatch. When I returned to the dormitories, Meg sat, poised on her bed, bursting with questions. "Ahah!" she exclaimed (as quietly as possible, so not to rouse the other girls), "I knew you had been sneaking out. Where do you disappear to every night?"

I felt heat rising to my cheeks again, but it was dark so Meg would not have noticed. "I like to get a bit of air before bed... I used to live in the country with my family before they sent me here. Just a habit of mine, I guess."

I felt bad lying to Meg since I thought perhaps we might eventually become good friends. I had never had many friends before. Father and I always traveled too much for me to make real relationships, other than Raoul–"So you don't have a secret admirer that you sneak away to see?" Meg inquired, interrupting my train of thought.

"Of course not. And if I ever have a suitor, you'd be the first to know," I reassured, unaware of why I suddenly felt so guilty.

Meg sighed, and resigned her string of questions, electing to go back to bed. I followed suit and found that I actually got a decent amount of rest that night.

The next day was Saturday, which allowed me the good fortune of sleeping in and no rehearsals. Meg and a few other ballet dancers decided to venture out into the heart of Paris and dictated that I was to join them. I obliged, and eventually, we found ourselves at a small but bustling café with delightful tea and even tastier pastries. Soon after our arrival, the girls decided to go shopping, but since I had no money yet, I elected to meander around a park for a bit before we met up again. I sat done on the bench, our designated meeting spot, and soon noticed a discarded newspaper. I skimmed the headlines, full of politics and scandals that did not interest me. However, it was a few little words on a back page of the paper that caught my eye. Under a list of missing persons was my name and portrait, "Mademoiselle Christine Daeé."

I felt my heart stop. Suddenly, every stranger around me was a potential threat. How many people in Paris read the newspaper and had seen my portrait? My hands felt shaky and clammy; at least it did not include "Murder Suspect Mademoiselle Christine Daeé," I thought to myself. However, this information indicated that the gendarmerie had discovered my uncle's body – of course they had! I disappeared nearly five weeks earlier. Dead bodies begin to smell much earlier.

Meg and the others soon returned with an array of hats and ribbons, and I had successfully managed to calm my racing heart done a bit. "Are you alright Christine? You look a bit pale," commented Meg, touching my hand gently.

"Yes, quite alright. I'm rather tired, that's all. I suppose I am not used to this much activity."

They accepted that response, and we all returned to the opera house just before sunset. However, I felt a pang of guilt in the back of my mind, for I was late to singing lessons.

I rushed up to the roof as quickly as a could, but by then the sun had already fully set, and the air began to feel much cooler as it had before in the park. "You're late." The voice stated, eerily, his tone made me feel colder than the early winter air did, "Where in heaven's name is your jacket?"

"I forgot it... I suppose I did not have need of it earlier. I apologize for being tardy, it won't happen again." My voice shook a little, be it from the cold or my mix of emotions, I was not sure.

"You seem distressed..." he carefully approached me, as though he might approach a wounded animal.

I suddenly realized how close we were in proximity, but could not increase our distance (for proprieties sake) without drawing dangerously close to the edge of the rooftop. "Let us not have a lesson tonight," he said gently, or at least not laced with condescension and frustration, as I was now accustomed to.

His softer tone surprised me, but not as much as when his gloved hand was suddenly at my cheek, gently wiping away an unwanted tear that had managed to escape. This action triggered a cascade of tears that broke free, flowing down my reddened cheeks. I turned away, graciously accepted the handkerchief proffered me in order to compose myself. "I'm not usually this emotional–" I hiccupped, "I think I am just a bit overwhelmed."

He did not say anything, which prompted me to continue, "You see, everyone I happen to care about always seem to die, and today I have come to the realization that for the first time in my life I am truly alone." I sobbed a little into my hands; somehow, despite all my blubbering, talking to Erik made me feel a bit less alone.

"Dear Christine," he said barely above a whisper, "You will never truly be alone, so long as you want me for company in your life."

I turned to face him and saw my loneliness and despair mirrored in his own eyes. "Come with me, it is too cold out here, you'll catch your death."

I chuckled slightly, and he swiftly removed his cloak, draping it around about my shoulders. He lingered there a moment, close enough for me to notice that he smelled like pine and cinnamon, and I thought briefly that he might try to kiss me, though he quickly moved an appropriate distance away. He did, however, offer me his arm, which I accepted and was glad that I did because I soon found myself beneath the opera house.


End file.
